The Best is Yet To Be
by littlelights
Summary: As Hand of the King in the North, Ser Davos wasn't sure what challenges he would face in a land recovering from the War Against the Long Night. He certainly wasn't expecting to have another chance of building a future with the Stewardess of Winterfell. Davos/OC, Jon/Sansa, Brienne/Tormund, Arya/Gendry pairings. Sequel/companion piece to 'A Future We Would Make Ourselves'.
1. Chapter 1

**The Best is Yet to Be**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **I've had a few requests to add onto the story of Ser Davos Seaworth highlighted in my previous story A Future We Would Make Ourselves. After watching the new episode last night and hearing the epic 'Jon Snow' bioptic speech, I had to begin writing this story.**

 **I get chills every time Liam Cunningham delivers one of his epic arguments. Every damn time.**

 **If there's someone I want as the right-hand man in my life, it would be Ser Davos. Because who wouldn't want that guy in your corner?**

XxX

Chapter 1

Winterfell.

The sight of the expansive grey castle on the horizon never failed to awe him a little. How such a massive collection of buildings and people manage to survive the merciless snow and winds to not just live but thrive in such a harsh environment was equally inspiring.

Now after a lifetime of travel on the sea and in the Stormlands, the grey stone of Winterfell was slowly seeping into his bones. The castle was dangerously close to being considered home. The younger Davos, equal parts cocky and cautious didn't relish the idea of keeping his boots by the side of one door for all his life. There was money to be made on the waves, his boat was more of a proper home than the crumbling dwelling his wife and son had inhabited in Flea Bottom.

The world was different now. The War of the Five Kings, the destruction of Kings Landing and the War Against the Long Night had stripped Westeros of nearly a third of its people. Winter had come, and the land was barren and could not sustain crops.

His wife Mayra and his son Matthos were dead. The little rooms in Flea Bottom where his family had lived and loved was long gone, destroyed when Cersei Lannister tried to burn Kings Landing to the ground in a fit of madness. Even his beloved boats were lost during the war of the Five Kings. There were few possessions left to Ser Davos now, which had never bothered him much until he'd come into the service of the King of Winterfell.

Things could be replaced. But loved ones couldn't. They were far beyond his reach now.

Everything he'd built with his hands had died with his family. Ser Davos was a man who possessed little more than the brains in his head, a proper title, and what remained of his fingers in a bag around his neck. Hardly the auspicious life he'd dreamed of when he was awarded his title.

How things had changed, indeed.

King Jon rode beside him, the two of them and their host of guards were heading home to the Stark stronghold. There had been a bit of business to attend to between House Glover and the Free Folk, most of it squabbling over the right to hunt in a particularly questionable area of land near the borders of the Dreadfort. In the end both parties were appeased by the king's decision, but not before the Glover vassals spent the better part of three days trying to plead their case. The free folk spent the three days drinking during each session and looking rather bored. Afterward, the king had been invited to partake of the hospitality of the free folk's new home at Dreadfort. The visit, which was pleasant enough, gave the king an opportunity to survey the site, speak to the residents, and take note to send a stonemason to assist with some of the external repairs again.

The visit itself had been vaguely amusing, watching the formidable Brianne of Tarth, the new Lady Giantsbane, pound some poor sod into the ground in a sparring match while four months gone with child. Ser Davos wouldn't have agreed with the lady sparring in the tiltyard, but was reminded that Arya Stark had kept the Night King's army away from the Three Eyed Raven well enough while she was carrying her own babe. Tormund had watched his wife win the match with a wide smile of lust stamped on his features. With the match concluded, the red-haired wildling approached his wife, smoothed her growing belly with his hand, and alluded to the same beating he'd taken while he was siring their child.

The lady, bless her, didn't cuff her husband across the face as expected. Instead, she leaned in and said quite clearly, "Later," before turning heel and returning to the keep for dinner.

"I'm a lucky man," Tormund had said when Ser Davos caught up with him. "She prattles on about us being too hard on the black-cloaked healer the Crow King sent, but she shows no mercy on me beneath our furs. She'll be the mother of a small army by summer."

That evening's dinner had been a riotous occasion, with games, drink, and merriment making up for the plain soup served by their hosts. The winter was proving to be a difficult one, but as long as the free folk continued to hunt and trade, there would be enough staples to feed the bellies of everyone who inhabited Dreadfort.

There were no high tables at Dreadfort. During a game of shield jumping and tug of war over an open flame, everyone milled about drinking and eating, their laughter filling the spaces which had once rotted with dirty deeds. Lord Giantsbane and his lady wife stood side by side together, his booming voice echoing through the hall. Lady Brianne was more sedate, but she smiled occasionally, and didn't seem to mind when her husband held her close to his side, his arm wrapping around the small of her back and caressing the expanse of her strong hip. The fact that she wasn't putting up too much of a fuss was truly a sight to behold.

But no matter how pleasant the visit, or how much King Jon enjoyed the company of Tormund Giantsbane and his lively stories, the Targaryen lord missed his lady wife. Sansa Stark, the red-haired Queen of the North was heavy with her second child, which made the king hesitant to leave her side for any length of time. Jaehaerys Targaryen missed the birth of his son, Robb Stark. The king was determined not to miss the arrival of his second child. From the warm looks and doting demeanor between the king and his queen, their growing family and their marriage was proving to be a blessing rather than a burden.

In the year following the victory against the Night King, it was clear to everyone that King in the North loved his beautiful wife with a fierce passion. The same was true of the red-haired Lady of Winterfell. She wore her love for her husband on her face and in her eyes wherever she went. The certainty of that love was palpable to the point where the stones of the keep seemed warmer under their feet.

From the gleam in his grace's eye, Ser Davos could see the king was anxious to return home. Spurring his horse into a gallop, King Jon burst forward of his retainers. Ser Davos smiled faintly and rallied his own horse. He may not have a willing woman waiting for him, but Ser Davos had a hot meal, a hotter bath, and roaring fire to look forward to when they arrived.

As they passed the gate and dismounted in the courtyard, there were greetings from the men and women gathering and passing through the open space. Ser Davos winced as he dismounted, feeling his leg protest from the long ride from Dreadfort in the bitter cold. The injury he'd acquired during the final Battle Against the Long Night still caused the Onion Knight a considerable amount of discomfort. It had been a nuisance feeling the bevy of aches and pains pop up more often and for long periods of time.

Growing old was a bitch.

Handing off the horse's reins to the stable boy, Ser Davos kept in step behind his king as the doors of Winterfell opened. The welcoming heat of the keep was a relief to Ser Davos, but he could see the King in the North seemed focused on someone else walking down the hall. More like two and a half someones.

Robb Stark was toddling down the corridor, his little leather booted feet carrying him forward in a strong show of strength. Behind him following at a close distance was the Lady of Winterfell, her beautiful face shining with a mother's pride. She took no pains to hide her condition, the physical evidence of her impending birth was apparent from the cut of her dress and the floor length half robe she wore to ward of the cold.

King Jon had eyes for no one but his wife and son, when he sprang forward to catch the little boy up in his arms and over his head, the happy squeals were soon squashed when Robb was brought down for a firm hug and a pecking kiss on the brow. The king then greeted his wife with a more intimate exchange. His free arm wrapped around her as he leaned in to kiss her deeply and whisper a few well timed words in her ear. The lady didn't blush, but she did give her husband a potent smile.

Yes, the King and Queen of the North were very much the picture of a loving couple.

Ser Davos gave his own greeting to the queen, a quick nod with his head before excusing himself from the reunited family. His feet found the way to the kitchens, where a small group of servants were preparing the evening meal.

In the center of the kitchen, right in the thick of things, was the Stewardess of Winterfell.

Medda.

Ser Davos couldn't help but watch her for a few moments, her capable hands inspecting dishes and lending a hand when needed. Her face was flush from the heat from the stoves and the activity in the room. Her dark hair was tied up at the back of her neck, a few loose tendrils emerged from the neat arrangement. Her eyes were dark brown, the same color as the rich spices he'd smuggled out of Braavos once. Pale skin, pleasing figure. It made his mind go blank sometimes just looking at her.

Such a northern beauty. It was a shame he rarely saw her smile. She had a darling smile. The first time he'd seen it, he'd been on the cusp of life and death after the Battle Against the Long Night. She smiled at him faintly when they first met, when he'd arrived back at Winterfell from the last war. Her smiles were so infrequent, the only other time he'd seen her lips perk up in pure amusement was when little Robb Stark had been seen walking side by side with his father's direwolf in the great hall a few weeks ago.

Medda was calm. She was kind. She was unfailingly capable. But she didn't seem given to great heights of emotion. It was her Northern upbringing, he supposed. Folk north of the neck were bound have a reserved demeanor. It was a reflection of their harsh environment.

In the year he'd come to know her, their paths crossed frequently. Most of the daily running and organization of the keep was under the hand of Lady Sansa and by default the Stewardess of Winterfell, but there were plenty of times they'd worked together to see to grain shipments from one keep to another, or in coordinating the visits of under vassals or southern lords wishing to parlay with the King and Queen in the North.

Medda was easy to work with, and her experience and gentle handling of tricky situations made her a valuable helpmate. Ser Davos wished she'd let her guard down a bit so he could get to know her better. Hers would be a tough exterior to break through. But if that day ever came, he was sure there was a warm and loving woman waiting inside.

And if he'd been ten years younger, he would have wanted to be the one to break down those walls. Now in the autumn of his life, Ser Davos would be content if she would just take a tankard of ale and some supper with him every once in a while.

Medda's astute eyes fixed on him, bringing Ser Davos out of his appreciative gaze.

"Good evening, Mistress Medda," Ser Davos greeted cheerily.

Medda quirked one dark eyebrow. They'd had this conversation before. No matter how adamant she'd been about the lack of a title, Ser Davos had kept up the courtesy. The former steward would have been granted the use of a courtesy title of master, so why shouldn't the stewardess take the title of mistress?

"Ser Davos," Medda replied steadily. "Dinner will be sent up to your rooms shortly."

Davos shook his head. "Ahh. Thank you. I'm off to the bathhouse."

The dark haired woman must have seen how he was walking, as she pulled away from the kitchen servants to survey the smuggler closely.

"Your leg is acting up again," she surmised apprising his gait. "Is your arm hurting as well? I can send someone to fetch the maester.". Her voice was pinched and her eyes were open in concern. From the look on her face and the sudden action, it was a close to fussing as she was likely to be over anyone.

"No. No maester, please." Ser Davos shook his head. "Nothing a bath, a hot dinner, and a warm fire won't cure. I've been thinking of them these long miles back from the Dreadfort."

The frown on her face was clear. "You need a maester," she said shortly.

"I'm fine without the maester. I'd prefer not to have him poking and prodding me when dinner is about to be served. Bad for the digestion."

"If that's what you prefer, ser." The tone of her voice was obvious she disagreed with his remedy. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Have dinner with me," The words popped out of his mouth before he could stop them. The abrupt question made both of them look around at the servants working at their tasks. No doubt there would be tittle tattle around the keep by the end of the night.

"What I mean to say, mistress, is will you take dinner with me? It's been a hard ride today, and there's news of Dreadfort I'd like to share with you."

Lies. He asked her to have dinner with him because eating alone in his room suddenly seemed unpalatable. Watching the heartfelt reunion between the king and his family made him long for her company. Even if it was just dinner. Even if it didn't amount to much. After a week surrounded by men and free folk, spending an hour with the likes of Medda the Stewardess would be a welcome end to the day.

The stewardess didn't answer at first. Her keen eyes were searching his face for something only she could see. He wanted to ask her what she was thinking, but from the look in her eyes, he knew she wouldn't be prone to share her thoughts in front of the servants.

"If I take supper with you, it will be later. I must see to my lady first."

"Of course."

"An hour, Ser Davos. We'll have supper in the hall. I can't stay too long."

Equal part public place with some measure of privacy. He wasn't expecting her to capitulate so readily. Ser Davos nodded and excused himself from the kitchens, the twittering voices of the servant girls in the shadowy corners following him through the corridor and out to the bathhouse. His movements, while stiff were determined.

If he had turned around, Ser Davos would have seen a look of interest flicker in the eyes of the stewardess. Something warm passing through her face before it was diminished by a painful memory. If he had seen it, no doubt Ser Davos would have forgone the bath to linger by her side for a while, and the dark haired woman would have lost her nerve to sup with him. It was to his advantage that he carried on with his tasks, readying himself for the evening meal. Mentally prepping himself for a dinner both of them would mark as the beginning of a turn of events neither would have ever expected.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**The Best is Yet to Be**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 2

Dinner had been a non-fussy affair, with soup and bread consumed in equal pacing. His dinner companion was a quiet one, Ser Davos thought, Medda seemed more interested in hearing him speak than sharing her own thoughts. She asked questions, ones which invited him to do most of the talking. What she asked wasn't secretive of compromising, just a way to expound on his recent journey to the west.

She didn't talk about herself, but rather she spoke about the needs and tasks of others. Her voice lilted with a quiet calm which could be mistaken for coldness. But her eyes. Those were a different story. Her lovely brown eyes reminded him of the look he'd seen in Lady Brianne when her giant ruffian of a husband was needling her.

Patient, open, and watchful. But there was a subtle warmth there which made his lips twitch.

If only he was fifteen years younger and an infinitely better man. She would have been quite the challenge to claim if he'd been in his prime.

Those days were well behind him. Now on the other side of the hill of life, there was little Ser Davos could offer the lovely Stewardess of Winterfell but friendship. A woman of her beauty and skills deserved someone stand beside her for years to come.

He'd made her smile at one point while he was telling her of the tug of war games at the Dreadfort. One man had fell near the coals and his beard had caught fire. All he'd done was laugh and drink more mead. Three stout women had been the anchor of another team, yelling insults and threats at the others until they'd pulled their way to victory.

"They sound quite formidable." Medda spooned the last of her soup into her mouth. She dipped the last of the bread into her bowl and wiped it clean. "I've never seen a group of women do something like that."

"They could mop the floor with any man of their equal." Davos chuckled. "The north is better for having them as neighbors at the Dreadfort. One of the women as pregnant, although, not far along. She kept yelling to Lady Brianne to join their team. She said their line could use two more."

"What did Lady Brianne say?"

"She said she was saving herself for childbirth. Heard it was worse than hot coals. Tormund Giantsbane laughed and said it wouldn't be so bad, as he'd be there to distract her. Brianne said he should be the one to endure childbirth, and the hot coals on the tug-of-war floor would be like walking on the ground on a warm day."

"I'll send her maester some nettle tea for her lying in." Medda noted to herself.

"There's still some time. She has awhile yet." Davos drank deeply from his ale tankard.

Medda shot him a mocking look. "Months seem like days to an expectant mother. It goes by fast. And after a babe is born, the days go by even faster."

"Sounds like the voice of experience. Do you have children?"

"Had," Medda's voice pitched low. "Two boys. Nine and eight." She looked as if she couldn't believe what she'd shared. Her hand shook as she reached for her tankard. Her hand shook a little. "And you?"

It was innocent enough question, one that Ser Davos had no problems answering. But he found his own voice couldn't block out a weight of sadness. "One son. Matthos. He was grown. He died in the Battle of Blackwater Bay."

Medda nodded, sipping from her tankard again. Her eyes were awash with grief. Grief for him. Grief for herself. "I'm sorry for your loss. A parent should never have to outlive their child."

Davos nodded. There wasn't anything much to say after that.

"I have to go," Medda said abruptly. "I have things to attend to." She stacked his empty bowl and hers into a tidy pile and gathered up the spoons and cloths. She reached for his tankard, but Davos shook his head.

"I have a bit more to finish. Thank you for supper."

Medda nodded, she didn't smile, but she seemed relieved their previous conversation was over. "Thank you for your company."

Davos gave her small smile as she walked away, her brisk steps carrying her quickly to the privacy of the kitchens. As far as dinner went, it hadn't been a bad one. Their conversation near the end had made him feel hollow inside, the old pain of losing his wife and son suddenly felt fresh again.

If he were a lesser man, he'd visit the brothel tonight and bury his frustrations into the arms of a willing woman. But that had never been his way, even in his wilder younger years. It was sleep he needed now, and as much as he missed his wife it had been years since he'd slept at her side.

Nothing fucked a man harder than time.

Climbing the stairs to his rooms, Ser Davos walked through the semi-dark corridors. There were sounds emitting from each chamber as he swept past. Woman's soft moan floated from the king's chamber. Further down, muted laughter echoed through the door of Lord and Lady Baratheon. Nearby, the wilding nursemaid was singing to her charges. The almost other worldly voice of Brandon Stark echoed from his chambers, where his lady wife was helping him prepare for bed. There was an edge to his tone, one Ser Davos hadn't heard in a long time. Something was brewing and Lady Meera was pressing her husband to rest and leave it for the morrow.

When Davos had shed his garments and sank beneath the welcoming furs of his bed, part of him sighed in relief. The feather mattress and frame were too large, far bigger than anything he'd slept in before he lived in Winterfell. It was a far better situation than he'd ever known, and with the fire crackling merrily on his hearth, the place seemed empty with just him rattling around in a too-big bed and a room of his own.

Ever the practical man, Davos rolled over and closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the castle lull him to sleep. But in dreams, he relived the vision he'd seen when death had almost claimed him at the Wall. The dark haired woman was sitting next to a cradle again. Her voice eased his mind and pushed him into a deeper sleep, and when she turned her head to smile at him, it tugged the name 'Medda' from his lips.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Best is Yet to Be**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

 **I spent most of October and November working on a non-fiction book project, and decided to update this fic with a new chapter in time for Christmas. It's not a fluffy happy chapter, you've been warned. More soon!**

XxX

Chapter 3

Winter town had grown. The temporary village just outside the walls of Winterfell looked a little rough, but proved to be perfectly serviceable to the growing collection of smallfolk seeking shelter near the keep. There had been a sizeable influx of people from the little settlements along the White Knife river desperately seeking shelter. There hadn't been enough grain to go around, and not enough coin among them to keep going for the whole of the winter.

It had fallen to the Stewardess of Winterfell to see the newcomers were properly housed, fed, and provided tasks to see them through the long cold years ahead. New shelters needed to be built, Medda thought, her mind methodically calculating the number of people in contrast to the available space. The structures had to be well built, constructed quickly, and capable of ensuring families and single people alike were comfortable. They would need more fuel for the fires as well. Communal living brought its own share of difficulties, especially with drainage and disposal of waste. No need to invite sickness into a place where people had already lost so much.

She greeted faces young and old, an uncommon number of women passed by, their hands chapped in the cold wind, grasping the children next to them, pressing their lean little bodies close by. The turmoil of the past few years had resulted in little more to expect than death, and those who survived appeared as shadows of their former selves. The war had made them old before their time with haggard expressions, greying hair, sad eyes, and empty bellies.

In the grey and white of winter, it wasn't hard to imagine that death was easier to accept than continuing to survive. An end to the cold and dark seemed almost like a mercy.

But survive she did, even if she hadn't really wanted to.

Medda turned the corner to walk inspect a new row of housing when she saw a crowd of gathering by the collection of refugees. Through the mass of unwashed clothing, anxious eyes, and hollow faces, a flair of red hair broke through the gloom. A strong male voice greeted those nearby, the rough northern tones mixing with another more feminine pitch.

King Jon and Queen Sansa.

They were greeting the new collection of White Knife refugees, their warm words seemed to settle the anxious faces in the crowd. A flurry of questions skirted through the crowd, many of them overwrought and overwhelmed with a mixture of worry and excitement. This was the man who had led the army which saved Westeros from the Night King. This was the good lady of Winterfell, who was even more beautiful than the traveling minstrels had sung about. The king stood next to his queen, a sign of unity and strength which hadn't been seen among northern royalty since the days of King Torren. The growing crowd was worrisome. Where were their sworn swords?

"You all are welcome to stay for the remainder of the winter," the king reassured. "The Starks have a saying, 'the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.' There is food and work for everyone. You are safe here in Winterfell with us."

A gaunt woman holding a weak looking child spoke desperately with the queen. "He won't eat, m'lady." The words spilled out of her lips in a rush. "He hasn't been able to keep anything down for two days."

Queen Sansa looked pensive, brushing the little boy's brow with her own hand and reading the distraught woman's face as one would read a page in a book. "I'll send the maester to you this evening. He'll see what he can do."

Tears peeked from the woman's eyes. "Thank you, m'lady. Thank you."

Just off to the side of the crowd was another set of watchful eyes, scanning the faces and intent of those present with an intent expression. The relaxed way he took in the scene set him apart from most of the sworn shields of Winterfell, but beneath that almost casual stance, Ser Davos Seaworth seemed to reading the situation the way a child absorbed an intense book.

The Hand of the King carefully inserted himself into the crowd with precision, greeting those who had assembled with a kind yet directional tone. "Good people, you're most welcome here. I know the stewardess and her maids have found places for you all, and supper is to be served soon. Our queen is in need of rest and dinner herself. Let's allow his grace to see her safely back to the keep. He'll hear all of your concerns on the morrow."

Ser Davos received an appreciative nod from the king, who after giving his last regards to those assembled, draped his arm around the queen's back and began escorting her slowly back to the gates of the keep. Their visit to the town would go a long way to allying the fears of the people residing just outside the tall walls of the castle, however, given Queen Sansa's advanced pregnancy, she wasn't wise for her to stray too far from the warm halls of Winterfell. A tad regretfully, the crowd shuffled away toward the communal kitchens or their dwellings to take their own meals.

As two of her servants broke through the retreating people walking by, Medda was updated on the amount of bread and soup the town needed for the folk that evening. Still Ser Davos made no move to leave. He seemed to be waiting for her to finish her business before strolling to her side.

"Good day, mistress." The rough muddle of the knight's accent was kindly, as it often was when they spoke. He was a steady one, this Hand of the King. A man who seemed to be cut from better cloth than most of the men who had passed through her life since the War of the Five Kings began.

She liked his voice, actually. His wit and words were never far off their mark, and he seemed to be quick with a joke to put most people at ease. Humor was a tool he used well, and he knew better than to use it on her.

"Ser Davos," Medda replied in kind. She liked how he was respectful, his hands clasped behind his back and keeping a propriety distance from her. Without prompting, he fell into step beside her, glancing around at the new improvements made to the structures in the area.

"The builders made good time, I see." The older man began. "You have enough space for everyone?"

"For them and a few more," Medda stated simply. "They didn't bring much with them. We'll need more clothing and shoes next, and a healer for the ones who are already ill. The maester is busy and I don't want to overtax him."

"He's the maester," Davos pointed out. "Wolken seems to be a steady sort. I'm sure he'll be able to help the folk here when he's not busy."

"Maester Wolken's duty is to the lord and lady of Winterfell, and the queen is due to deliver soon. I have a few women in mind who can nurse the sick in his stead. Though, if he can be spared at some point, it would be helpful."

The way he looked at her, the warm glow of appreciation and understanding in his eyes pricked at the soft flesh beneath her skin. But her heart was still dead inside. It had been for years. It was out here in the vast open cold air that she was reminded that while the muscle in her chest kept her alive, the soft parts of her were as dead as the frozen ground beneath her feet.

Dead as her two boys, both of them so young. Eyes unseeing when she found them lying bloodied in the mud near her home. Neither had lived to see ten name days.

They had died. She had lived. Surviving with guilt and grief haunting her every step.

Now there was a man with all too keen eyes and a warm expression nearby who seemed intent on drawing her out when she was focused on her work. It had been so effortless to fall into easy rapport with him. The more time she spent with the older man, the more she liked him. There was something appealing about the graying knight, his sensible but compassionate nature, who was bold in the way he spoke but savvy in a way she could appreciate. The way he told stories and asked questions made her reveal more about herself at their shared dinner than she'd realized. Medda didn't have any intention on speaking with him alone so informally again. She needed safety and security her two hands and quick mind could offer.

She'd never trust another man with her heart or her person again. That emotion had died long ago. Her husband managed that.

Service to the queen and to the people of Winterfell kept her busy. Too busy to hear the sounds of swords which haunted her unconscious moments. Exhaustion was an escape from the nightmares. Dark episodes where she screamed and cried out in her sleep. It was easier to talk about the running of Winterfell in the failing light of day, keeping their mutual roles between them.

"Would you like to see the kitchens, my lord?" Medda offered, turning a corner to another row of houses. Even with a bad leg, the Onion Knight was keeping up with her brisk pace.

"Aye, I would," The man at her side agreed. "Can't say I have any experience supervising the relief efforts in a winter town such as this one."

His statement was a comment and a compliment, and it floored her. Even when she offered him nothing, there was sincerity and kindness in his voice. Medda nodded, keeping her head partway down to the ground and walked the familiar route through the well-organized group of dwellings to a larger well-lit structure nearby. Large simmering cauldrons of soup and overflowing baskets of bread were lined up in neat rows by a soup line. As the adults ate, smaller cauldrons were being ladled full of steaming soup, ready for delivery to the bed bound and infirm.

Ser Davos said little during the tour, leaving Medda to keep mental tally of the supplies being used and the ones needed for the next meal. Striding purposefully toward the communal kitchen, she could hear Ser Davos take a deep appreciative breath of the fragrant air. The warmth of the kitchen was a welcome contrast to the cold outside, and the aroma of baking bread and potato soup filled the space. Seeing everything to her liking, she made her final rounds of the town, taking stock of what tasks needed to be tackled on the morrow.

"I haven't the foggiest idea what's needed to keep a town going in the winter," Ser Davos supplied hastily as they approached the last group of wooden homes near the keep. "Can I provide some service for you, mistress? Anything you need before I send the rest of the men out to cut more wood?"

Another courtesy. One she didn't know if she deserved. It was either the courtesy or the sudden wind which tempted dampness in her eyes. Medda nearly responded with a polite 'no, thank you,' when a loud female voice broke behind her.

"Medda fucking Forrester. You're still alive?"

It wasn't the greeting of a friend, or even the overly familiar voice of someone from Deepwood Motte. But it was a voice she knew all the same, and an unwanted reminder of past sorrow that had burned deeply into her soul.

Medda felt herself go utterly still. She saw the slight tick of confusion pass through Ser Davos' blue eyes. He had worn her down once, this knight made Hand of the King. Now confronted with a vision from her past, the coldness in Medda's heart broke free of its hold, and flooded the blood in her veins. Just a few minutes ago she'd felt almost warm in the presence of the man beside her. Now, Medda felt nothing. Would feel nothing. She would never be made to feel anything again.

Her long-deceased father, so observant of northern lordly protocol, hadn't schooled her in the way of greeting her dead husband's lover in the open right under the nose of the king's Hand. The only weapons she had at hand were her civility and honor as the Stewardess of Winterfell.

"Sybell," Medda greeted calmly, she felt more dead and alive in the growing dark around her. "Have you just arrived?"

"Don't act like you care. Hoped I'd see your mangled corpse in that rotted waste of a village of yours. But the rumors are true, I guess. I just didn't want to believe them." Sybell Bole, her once shiny brown hair and buxom appearance was gone, as were a few of her once pleasingly clean teeth. The upheaval of the war had transformed her from a fetching daughter of a lower house to a beggar in a matter of years, and the disparity between them couldn't be more apparent.

There had always been disparity between them, Medda's father was a steward, Sybell's father was a lesser vassal of a lesser house. Medda's marriage had been arranged, and never happy. Her husband Hamma, while a fearsome and respected warrior in his own right, had been content to warm another woman's bed for years before his march south with King Robb's army.

No amount of family pressure had managed to keep the woman in check. Sybell had publicly shamed her more than once, happy to cackle her success of snaring such a vigorous and handsome man into her bed for her own purposes. Sybell's own cockhold of a husband had turned a blind eye to his wife's infidelity and had the good sense to die of old age two decades early.

Still, the woman had words, and words were weapons in the hands of someone with a reputation for sharp pettiness and vicious gossip.

Medda had to count to five in her head before speaking. Thankfully, the cold rushed through her brain and body, acting like armor against the verbal arrows directed her way. There was an angry look on the face of her companion, and whatever he was about to say was cut off by the words which sprang from her own mouth.

"You're welcome to take shelter in the winter town. There are communal kitchens right down there if you're hungry. I'll have a maid find you a place to sleep." The words were not exactly kind, but they were stalwart in their generosity. Sybell didn't seem to keep any of them in mind as she approached the stewardess in the haze of dusk falling around them.

"I heard the Ironborn raped your whole village bloody," Sybell spat, the flecks of spit freezing in the cold air. "Such a shame, really. Terrible shame. Heard no one got out unscathed."

The implication was obvious. But Medda had a weapon of her own.

"The north remembers," Medda said coolly. "The war is over. Are you planning to stay through the winter or perhaps you'd like to journey onward to Blackbird Hall."

"You're fucking mental if you think I'd go back to Blackbird Hall," Sybell pulled a stringy strand of hair from her chapped lips. "What would I do there? All my family's dead."

"There's a new lord," Medda countered, using logic. Getting Sybell back to her ancestral home would leave more reserves for the others who needed far greater help. "I've heard Lord Ashton is a good man."

"And a married one. That's not helpful."

"That never stopped you before." The words spilled out before Medda could stop them. The miscalculation in speech cost her the high ground. "Hamma's dead. Your anger won't bring him back."

"He never wanted you," Sybell spat, the anger on her face shining brightly in her expression. "He never cared for you. Hamma was mine before you were ever wed. If it wasn't for his fucking cunt father he would have never married you." Sybell swiveled her head and glared daringly at Ser Davos. "She's as cold as a fish, I've been told. Can't keep a man's staff upright in her hands or her hole."

Once upon a time, Medda's face would have burned red from embarrassment. She would have slunk away from Sybell's harsh words with nary a mortified gasp, retreating to the safety of her own hearth. But things were different now. Medda had stopped crying the day she buried her boys in the ground.

Whatever Medda had planned to say next was cut off by the man at her side. "That's enough!" There was hot anger in Ser Davos' voice as he rounded on the woman in their midst. "Take yourself off. Go cool off in the snow - there's an abundance of it. And come back when you're ready to respect the stewardess of this keep."

"And you are you besides some used up soldier from the south?" Sybell shot back. "Is she humping you to keep her bed warm old man?"

Medda could feel the moment Ser Davos unleashed his full might on the unsuspecting woman. In her nearly three years of service to the Queen in the North, Medda had never seen Ser Davos lay his authority down with such finality. She'd heard stories, of course, of what the aging knight had said during the Battle of the Bastards. The telling and seeing of it were spectacularly different.

"The Stewardess of Winterfell extended you hospitality, and you've chosen to take a piss on it." With a flick of his good hand, he motioned for two nearby guards to his side. As the shabbily dressed guards she knew as Elin and Rodell hurried over, the intelligence and cadence of his next words pounded through Medda's brain. "I want you to take a good look around. All these people will be housed, fed, and kept alive this winter under her guidance. When spring comes they'll have survived by the sheer determination of this woman and the king and queen of the north. If you're angry and distressed, most people can sympathize and understand. But when you throw insults and slander in the face of the Stewardess of Winterfell, your invitation is revoked."

"And who the fuck are you?" Sybell sounded sickingly sweet for all the crudeness in her voice.

"The man who's putting you on a wagon at dawn bound for Lord Asheton and Blackbird Hall." Ser Davos never swayed his tight expression from the sputtering look on Sybell's face. "She sleeps with the horses tonight, and can break her fast with some bread in the morning. Tell Lord Asheton to find a place for her in the scullery. She's not welcome here at Winterfell any longer."

With that, he stepped aside for the guards to perform their task, his hand reaching for Medda as he pulled her away with him. The guards were intent on their duty, taking Sybell by each arm. "This way," Rodell said gruffly.

Sybell spit on the ground, her aim coming dangerously close to the hem of Medda's cloak. "Fucking southerner. Your dragon queen doesn't rule here."

"Tell Lord Ashton the Hand of the King sends his regards."

As the realization sunk into Sybell's mind, Medda cast her one last cold expression. As much as she had detested Ser Davos interjecting on her behalf, Medda found herself unable to utter them. Whatever tragedies had happened after Hamma had marched south were now firmly in the past. Her husband's lover had found a way to survive, how she'd accomplished that fete only the Gods knew. But where Medda found herself growing colder with each passing day, Sybell appeared to be blazing hotter, her anger and fury burning like the summer sun. Men were attracted to heat, it wouldn't be long until Sybell found herself another lover from the host of survivors still alive in the North. Sybell would survive. Sybell might move on one day.

Medda stood in the snow, watching the other woman hissing and beleaguering the guards with large verbal strikes. At least the anger made Sybell look more alive. What would it be like to feel that much again?

"Apologies mistress, if I overstepped my bounds." The voice of Ser Davos folded over her with its warmth. "I'll not have someone here intent on making more trouble than you need."

"It was generous, what you did." Medda said softly, continuing to watch the guards pull their charge toward the block of stables. "She might be able to grieve better when she returns home."

"I'll not mince words about it, but what she needs is a swift kick in the ass," Davos replied stiffly. "Given what's happened to everyone, a bit of disrespect is understandable, but anything more, it upsets the balance."

Medda nodded, meeting his steady gaze with her own. "Thank you, Ser Davos, for your assistance." With that, the stewardess turned in the direction of the communal kitchens, intent on taking a shift serving dinner to all the hungry people of Winter Town. Without the steadfast presence of the knight beside her, the air felt empty, but she paid it no mind. And if she paid attention to the little niggling pain in her chest, she would have seen something akin to unrequited affection running across Ser Davos' handsome face.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**The Best is Yet to Be**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 4

Her lacings were too tight again.

The Lady of Winterfell took a moment to pause her pacing, and halfheartedly pulled at the back of her dress. The letter she'd just received from Brianne of Tarth – now Lady Giantsbane, was placed once again on the desk as Sansa arched her back to relieve the pressure of the intricate lacings wreaking down her spine. The weight of this child was proving to be heavier than her firstborn. Already she'd had to let out her dress a second time and add an additional lacing row to the back. There was still a week or so to go until she delivered, and now that the pre-labor pains appeared without warning, there was little comfort she could find anyway.

Walking naked beneath a cloak would have been preferable to wearing any sort of clothing at this point. While that measure would have scandalized the people, it was something her husband probably would have smiled to see in the privacy of their rooms. Those smiles of his were usually a prelude to something else they enjoyed behind closed doors. Where most southerners would have thought she and her husband were distant and rather cold, it was in both their natures to share most of their affections in private.

And the personal moments she shared with Jon in their rooms enflamed her blood. It was a combustible mixture of profane lust and the headiest love which felt more sacred as time passed. The smallest gestures consisted of grasping her hand under the table when they were seated together, or offering his arm as they toured the grounds. When she'd grown heavy with their second child, he'd begun to support her back with one of his strong arms, using the closeness to tuck her into his own warmth. When they were abed, he marveled at the changes the pregnancy brought to her body, caressing the skin above her womb with such awe and reverence that it made her heart sigh.

Still, they couldn't stay cocooned inside all the time now that winter had come. Jon was reluctant to leave her side these days. He'd moved his desk close to hers so they could work in tandem, reviewing ledgers and correspondence together for several hours at a time. They settled disputes seated side by side in the great hall, and took family meals with their siblings and Lady Olenna. She'd shooed him away this morning to help train the guards, anything to keep him active and out in the public eye where he could be a strong visual presence.

Although, it would have been useful to have him around right now when she couldn't quite reach her damnable laces.

A soft knock from the door and the voice of the Stewardess of Winterfell signaled a distraction from pain.

Sansa bid her stewardess to enter and greeted her with a warm smile. "Medda, I'm glad you're here. I find myself in need of your service."

"Whatever you need, your grace." The dark haired woman responded softly, making a quick to move to her queen's side. "I'm guessing it's the laces again."

Sansa turned her back to the stewardess. "Did my face give it away?" Sansa asked as she felt the other woman's nimble fingers untying the bottom strings of her dress.

"Never, your grace." Medda responded kindly. "The hand on your back told me everything I needed to know."

Ever perceptive, Medda was one of the few women she knew who could keep pace with her in wit and actions. She was a quick one, this stewardess.

"Sweet relief," Sansa said with a smile as she felt the fabric give way.

"It's not all that difficult." Medda supplied, her tone lulling and kind. "Any woman who's ever carried a child knows a tight dress is torture for an expectant mother." Quick fingers made subtle adjustments to the fabric, providing more relief. "You should have your maid put extra slack in your lacings. Your figure comes second to your child."

"My husband assisted with my laces this morning," Sansa said with a slight grin. She didn't have to imply what service Jon had provided before he'd helped her dress that morning.

"Oh?" The stewardess didn't sound all that surprised. "Well. I'm sure his grace was only trying to help."

"Yes, he was helpful." But Sansa didn't linger on the answer. Her eyes closed and her mind wandered to her husband's strong arms placing her delicately on her desk, using the act of helping her with her stockings as an excuse to get under her shift. She'd perched on the edge of the desk, panting and heaving from the pleasure his lips and tongue wrought on the sensitive lower regions of her body. Then he helped her dress before breaking their fast.

The kind voice of her attendant broke the silence. "Tomorrow, you may want to wait for your maid, your grace. I'm sure the king can find his talents suited elsewhere."

Sansa nodded. Yes, her maid could see to the laces. Jon was perfectly suited to rubbing her feet and pleasuring her again from a preferably softer position in their bed tomorrow.

"Thank you, Medda." Sansa said with a small sigh of relief when the final crush of pain retreated from her back.

"Of course, your grace."

As Sansa stretched again, she pushed aside the retreating discomfort of her back to focus to the day's tasks at hand. She sat down in her chair, wincing a bit as she pulled the ledger pages open. "What news do you have for me today?"

"The current stock of flour and food stuffs are keeping up with demand." The stewardess began. "There's noticeably less meat in the soup. We may wish to preserve what meat we have on a rotation basis, withholding meat three days a week, substituting dried fish as the shipments from White Harbor are consistent enough."

"Vegetable soups and fish stews for how long?"

"We have plenty of potatoes. Highgarden sent enough for another year. With what small crops we're growing in the glass gardens, we should be able to make a case to keep our meat for future use."

There was a slight pause as Sansa reviewed her tallies in the ledgers. "Fish isn't going to see us through to spring if winter lasts longer than two years."

"No, your grace, it's not." The stewardess agreed, crossing her hands in front of her. "We may need to trade and import food from further afield than White Harbor. Winter Town is growing. As food stocks give out elsewhere, we'll see more and more people arrive looking for help. It would be wise to send away for greater amount of supplies while the roads are still clear."

Sansa made notes in her ledger without comment, listening intently and nodding in agreement when it suited. "Speaking of clear roads, Ser Davos said he sent a cart off to Blackbird Hall this morning." Glancing up, Sansa noted how her stewardess declined to offer up any opinions on the subject right away.

"It was his decision to send the cart, your grace." Medda stated calmly, her face betraying no emotion. "It was his right as Hand of the King."

"He told the king and I that he sent one of the refugee women to Blackbird Hall as well. She somehow managed to lose her guest rights while in his presence. She was a Bole, her family pledged to Lord Ashton?"

"Lord Ashton and what's left of the Boles serve House Glover, your grace."

"Just like your family." Sansa pointed out.

"There are few left from House Forrester," Medda's words were almost blank, as if she was reciting history from the dustiest of books. "All those who marched with your brother King Robb died in battle or at the Red Wedding. What few remained went to fight with King Jon at the wall during the Long Night."

Sansa noted how the stewardess did not dwell on the fate of the women and children of the house who had been brutalized by Ironborn raiders. Regardless, the implications were clear. "There are few left from House Forrester."

"Precious few, my queen."

"Yet you've never felt the need to go home? Back to Ironrath or Deepwood Motte?"

"There's nothing left for me there, your grace." The stewardesses words brought an unbidden chill into the room. "You posed that question three years ago."

"Yes," Sansa acknowledged sadly. "Your family is gone."

Dipping her head, the other woman nodded. "Yes. My sons. My parents. My brothers and my sister. Their families."

Death made everything so final, Sansa thought. Nearly all the people who filled the life before she left for King's Landing had been killed or died before she married Ramsey. It had taken years to feel at ease and comfortable in Winterfell again after everything had changed so tumultuously. It had been people, as much as the stone and mortar to the keep itself, with had begun to make Winterfell a home once more. People like Medda, and Allyse the miller. Maester Wolken and Oona. Her maid Maia. All the faces and family which filled the walls had made this place come alive again with bursts of light and color, even in the dark of winter.

"Ser Davos said that sending the woman home to Blackbird hall to grieve and recover was the best course of action," Sansa pressed ahead. "Jon and I agreed.

"Ser Davos is a good man, your grace." Medda's quick mind seemed to have difficulty finding words. "He was generous when others would have been dismissive."

"That's because Ser Davos is an excellent judge of character." Sansa pointed out. "I don't know if it's from his former life as a smuggler or just a talent he's always had, but he sees right into the heart of a person or a problem and always finds a way to solve it. I trust him. Jon trusts him. There are few people I trust as well as him in this world. He's proven himself time and time again. But I can't help but notice how distant you are with him. And with others in general."

When Medda said nothing, Sansa pushed forward. "He thinks he overstepped his boundaries by sending the woman away. He feels he's slighted you and your authority over guests to our keep and to Winter Town. I would never advocate you take anyone into your confidence without your consent, but the two of you need to talk and make decisions together should the need arise, and trust each other's judgement when to take the lead and where to defer to each other's positions."

Medda nodded stiffly. "Yes, your grace."

Sansa studied her stewardess for a long moment, taking in her statuesque form and deferred stance. "You and I took charge of Winterfell with what few people were here during the Long Night. It required more of us than either of us thought we were able to give. But we survived. We endured, and we did so by working together. And now we're learning to live when before the very real possibility of death was a daily companion. It's a change, and it should be a blessing. I will never ask you what happened when the Ironborn raided your village. Never."

"Thank you."

"But don't let it stop you from embracing what we're building here. You're one of the reasons why Winterfell has sprung back to life. I can't imagine this place without you now. So, please see Ser Davos and sort this out. There may be a need to send others away to other places as Winter progresses, and it's better you're both prepared now than later."

"I will see him before dinner is served, your grace." Sansa was mollified by the small inflection of the stewardesses' dark head, and her respectful response. "What else do you require?"

The two fell into a more comfortable routine of ledger surveys and house hold accounts, and later spoke of improvements made to outbuildings and the mill. By the time their business was completed, Medda quickly excused herself and left the solar. It was a polite, but rushed exit, one which left Sansa pensive. It wasn't unusual for the two of them to visit and chat about the comings and goings of families and events through the seven kingdoms.

Today had been different. Not precisely difficult, but disheartening. The upheaval of war was over. The Long Night had been defeated. But the years had left scars on bodies as well as minds. But it took longer to rebuild a person sometimes than it was to lift stone into place and rebuild a keep. Longer still for a woman to pick up the pieces of a life when there was little left to live for.

It had been more than duty and honor which had saved her life. It had been family and love which had salvaged what had been left of her soul and helped her rebuild again.

So, what would it take for the Stewardess of Winterfell to move beyond the past? Something made Sansa think there was something stranger and wordless at work. An element of change that was present and invisible. What it was, she didn't quite know.

Suddenly finding herself in a maudlin mood, Sansa stroked her burgeoning womb thoughtfully before rising to don her cloak. It was the urge to see her husband, to reassure herself he was alive, which caused her feet to move faster through the corridor. She looked forward to standing above the tiltyard, watching Jon train the new guards from the very perch her parents had stood so many years ago. When she watched him move, he was heat and strength of will brought to life.

As she took in the scene below, Sansa picked out faces in the crowd as well as those walking through the yard. Spotting Ser Davos conferring with two soldiers near the far gate. Approaching them was Medda's telltale hair and cloaked figure making headway through the space. The stewardess, her serviceable cloak stopped just shy of the Hand of the King. The soldiers were excused, shuffling about their duties. Although unable to hear the conversation, the exchanged seemed convivial enough, with Ser Davos nodding and his mouth breaking into a kind smile.

The two parted quickly, and the nagging little pain in Sansa's heart lessened. Bless Medda and her efficiency. Sansa smiled faintly. When she looked down at her husband, she saw him looked up at her with one of his soft smiles of appreciation. The small shot of desire racing through her body had Sansa grinning like an idiot before she managed to stifle the reaction.

No matter. The whole yard had seen it. Good natured chuckles and respectful smiles filled the faces of those in the yard. Not wanting to be the subject of further gossip, Sansa turned on heel, and glided back toward her solar, resolving to finish the day's work in time for supper.

Afterward, Sansa vowed, she shed her damnable dress for the rest of the evening.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**The Best is Yet to Be**

 **By littlelights**

 **Sorry about the delay. I wrote and published my first book (non-fiction, you'll probably never read it), had material left over to develop a second non-fiction title, and started a new novel this November. Yes, I've been busy, but busy with a purpose. I will be finishing this fic, just at a much slower pace than I expected. I still love it, and I've set a deadline of having it finished before the last GOT season. Thanks for your patience!**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 5

If there was one thing Brandon Stark genuinely enjoyed in the world, it was warging into a flying creature.

Birds, dragons, insects, it didn't matter. He loved the sensation of sailing above the earth, watching the world pass below him with little more than a lift of air and the movement of wings.

Even as a small boy, Bran couldn't quite manage to keep his feet on the ground. He'd been forever climbing any structure which offered a view from above. The need to climb had driven his mother spare, and she'd made him promise on more than one occasion to keep his feet on the ground. But like all small boys, Bran hadn't listened, and he'd paid the price for the childish impulse to reach the next window, the next tallest ledge, and ultimately, the top of the Broken Tower, where his life changed irrevocably forever.

Bran often wondered, if he'd kept his feet on the ground that day, would he still have become the Three Eyed Raven? Would the burden had passed to another? His visions never revealed these lesser roads not taken, and perhaps it was better that way. For one thing, Bran never would have met his wife Meera Reed, and no matter how far he flew or what animal he warged into, it was the steady presence of his wife which kept him grounded to the here and now where he belonged.

If it hadn't been for Meera, he would have been tempted to drown in the visions of the past as opposed to returning to the harsh realities of the present. She touched one of the few soft places still left in his heart, and helped him reconcile the duality of his existence. Whenever he was lost, Meera's stern voice and firm grip prevented him from plunging below into the sea of visions which certainly would have welcomed him like the spectral arms of death. When he awoke to her sweet kisses and the sweep of her unruly dark hair across his cheek, Bran only had to glance into his wife's elfin face and know his attention was needed on the present plane of the living.

She anchored his heart and part of his soul, Bran thought, and if he lost her, there would little temptation to stay in the world.

But for now, he was free to fly high above the ground in the guise of a crow, one of the largest ones which remained close to Winterfell to pick at scraps left behind by the human inhabitants of the keep. This bird was a keen one, his eyes kept a sharp lookout below as he soared on the wind. Winter had limited movement of people, animals, and supplies to the area, but there always a few new things to see during these flights. Sometimes he saw a herd of elk foraging for plants under the snow. On other occasions, he watched the new groups of refugees headed for the winter town encampment. Today was different, he could feel the tendrils of warning gliding across his skin. There was something coming, but what?

The crow swooped high over the horizon, surveying the land below for dead prey to eat. He was a fair distance from the keep, but close enough to see brown moving figures of people. His eyes caught a shiver of movement from the trees. They weren't dressed as refugees, their moves were too cautious and quick to be taken as anything less than a band of strong armed warriors.

Not the free folk. Not a set of guards. The group of five men rushing through the woods toward Winterfell's mill were something altogether different. Their weathered clothing and rough swords bore symbols Bran hadn't seen in years.

Ironborn.

Bran maneuvered on strong wings lower down to the newly rebuilt mill. He recalled his wife's words when she had visited the site several months ago. The miller was a woman, Meera had stated cheekily with a sparkle in her eye, Allyse - a merchant's daughter who had taken in an orphan boy and a girl while everyone was off fighting the Night King. The dimpled cheeked Allyse, her hands busy pushing a cart into the storage shed didn't see the five men moving quickly toward the mill. Commanding the crow to squawk loudly in warning, the miller's pretty face turned from one of focus to alarm. She pushed the cart the final distance into the shed, and closed the doors quickly. Her quick eyes scanned the white woods looking for the source of the bird when she spotted the men and their drawn swords closing in at a distance.

The woman moved quickly calling for the boy bringing in water from the well to run to Winterfell. The boy seemed hesitant to leave, but the warning in the woman's voice gave him no room to refuse. With a rush of legs, the boy was off, tearing through the snow on the path toward the keep, while Allyse closed herself inside the building, the audible sound of the board being slid into its brace echoing through the still air. Sitting in his branch from above, Bran could see the Ironborn approaching the building, ignorant or uncaring of the boy racing down the path away from their location.

But what would five Ironborn raiders be doing here? They were going to burn the place down, or sack the mill for the grain and flour inside. And they were going to do so without any fear of immediate reprisal. Or so they thought.

Just as the largest of the men began to hack at the bolted door, Bran commanded the crow to swoop downward, pointy claws digging into hair and a sharp beak pecking at unshielded eyes. The surprise attack startled the man, his sword swatting uselessly at the bird, too distracted by pain and shock to do more than sweep his free arm through the air.

With his keen bird eyes, Bran could see the men looked thin and underfed. The sharp talons of the crow took one last dig before lifting up and gaining air back into a nearby tree. The man swore, blood leaking from the open wounds on his head and face. The bright red blotches fell in the snow and flew with fury into splatters on the wood door.

"Fuckin' crow!" the man howled. "Come back down you shit, so I can gut you and eat you!" The man's spit followed his blood to the ground, while the other men looked warily around for indications imminent attack.

"Fuck the bird," another man with a weasel face hissed. "Knock down the fucking door so we can get what we came for."

"You in there, girlie?" The taunting voice of a pox marked man rose above the curses of the big man. "We'll go easy on ya."

The larger man pushed the others away and slammed his body into the door. Another of the ill-kept men followed suit. Bran didn't allow the attackers to rest as he continued to swoop, peck, and distract the men who were attempting to breach the door. The chaos caused by one bird kept the men off kilter and suspicious of every noise and crow caw. Allowing his bird host to rest on a tall branch, Bran called on the rest of Winterfell's crows, causing a black swarm to burst over the walls and over the horizon. It would be a few minutes before the rest of the crows would arrive, hopefully buying time for the vulnerable boy to racing through the snow to raise the alarm.

In the shallow light of late afternoon, Ser Davos waited patiently outside the vast kitchen door just off the side courtyard. The heavy dark and cold of winter surrounded the grey walls, the thick stone of the keep was kept alive by the hot water springs which pumped through the structure like blood through the body, keeping everyone inside protected in warmth. Just outside the stone structure, the sentries and small folk kept themselves warm with elevated brazier fires in small alcoves in and around the keep. There wasn't a fire posted outside the kitchens, but as the door to the cooking stations opened, a nearly scalding wave of heat burst through the open air.

The kitchen boys, and one disgruntled scullery maid made their way through the door into the thinning light. The boys were in a hurry, their voices full of mischief, while the maid trudged another bucket of slops out for the nearby pigs.

It was the second waft of warm air across his back which had Davos turning back to the kitchen, as the shadow passing through the archway made him stand a little straighter.

The Stewardess of Winterfell, her soft dark hair left loose behind a line of braids, emerged from the overheated warmth of the keep. She wore her cloak like well-loved armor, its tailored lines and occasional mended spots seemed to hold any nervousness she held inside close to her body. When she nodded in his direction, Ser Davos greeted her with a smile and a round of innocent conversation.

"Mistress." Ser Davos began politely. "The path to the mill is clear." It was his invitation to walk with him a while, as for two weeks now they'd taken to traversing side by side each afternoon for an hour before the supper was served. The burden of revealing their destination rested firmly on his shoulders, but as the deeper snowfall kept their choices limited to well-trodden areas, it wasn't difficult to make a decision.

Medda nodded stoically as she tucked her arms deeper into her cloak and pulled the hood over her head. She didn't smile, but Davos could see she was making an attempt to appear pleasant and happy to see him. Just what he needed, he inwardly groaned. A woman with teeth clenched in duty made for a poor walking companion. When he'd seen her striding through the courtyard two weeks ago, her dark hair pulled back in a tidy braid, he'd held his breath for a moment. She'd been particularly kind that day, her lilting voice politely asking for his company on a walk later that afternoon. He'd been hopeful it would be the beginning of something pleasing to them both, a steady sort of companionship where they were free to express ideas and thoughts in a conversational manner.

It was sadly, not turning out to be the case.

They spent most of the time in silence, and while Ser Davos thought himself a patient man, his mouth seemed to run on its own accord. He'd fairly spilled his guts at one point, relaying a letter he'd received from Lord Wyman Manderly in White Harbor in regards to a particularly inventive fish thief when he read the faraway look in the Stewardess' gaze. Hoping to garner a reaction he altered the story and instead brought up a gift for Lady Sansa's name day.

"The king seems intent on celebrating it this year," Davos said congenially. "Neither one of 'em seemed to care much for their own name day a year ago, given what they went through."

The constant upheaval and danger of their monarchs' lives had been too difficult for either of them to celebrate something as common as a nameday. Lady Sansa, with her two abysmal marriages and abuse at the hands of her captors had found little in the past to celebrate, while King Jon had been too busy protecting the realm at the sharp end of a sword for longer than he'd thought possible. The war and struggle of the time before and just after their marriage had taken priority over everything else. In the aftermath of everything they'd endured, it was time to start making the smaller celebrations commonplace again.

"But things are changing, and hopefully for the better," Davos continued, pushing memories of the past away. "The king asked me to see what the silversmiths in White Harbor had on offer. The treasury can afford a trinket or two, and given how the roads are clear, whatever the king chooses should arrive in time."

It was a clear invitation to share her thoughts, and he gave the Stewardess of Winterfell a moment to contemplate. Gifts were tricky things, in Davos' opinion. To someone who wanted everything, nothing would be good enough. For those who had nothing, anything out of the ordinary could leave them in rapture. The red haired Lady of Winterfell had always been kind to him, and even after a year of her near daily company he wouldn't claim to know what type of gift would please her.

The stewardess was slow to answer and though her face sported a thoughtful expression, the lack of response had Davos shaking his head in defeat. Whatever the lovely lady at his side was thinking, she wasn't going to share.

"My apologies, then," Ser Davos said quickly. "I tend to talk too much and at other times, not enough, I suppose."

The lady, bless her, did say something then. "The fault is mine, ser." Her voice was calm and steady, but it belayed a deep emotion behind it. "Lady Sansa's nameday –," Her voice caught for a moment, before she continued. "It is-was my eldest son's nameday as well."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know." Davos said quickly his voice cracked in sympathy. Grief had a way of gnawing on a person, and while he'd mourned the death of his own wife and son, he'd grieved their loss long ago. The stewardess hadn't had the opportunity from what he could reckon. No wonder she hadn't wanted to talk.

"I should be the one to apologize, Ser Davos," her voice was clear and cool in the crisp air. "I have not been as mindful as I should. You brought a question to me, and I haven't given you an answer."

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to," the knight replied, not wanting to press the lady further.

"No, it was a good question. A fair one." She took a moment to gather her thoughts, and Davos found himself holding his breath. "You're a good man, Ser Davos. You've always had a kind word to spare for the men in the bailey and the smallfolk at the door. Our queen has nothing but praise for you, and while I do not know our king well, everyone can see he trusts and admires you."

"That's very kind, mistress, but I'm not a man who requires accolades."

She interrupted his next thought. "You deserve it," Medda continued forcefully. "The queen encouraged me to get to know you better."

"A polite way to say 'ordered', you mean." The bitter taste of something angry was on his tongue.

"Encouraged," his companion replied gently. "You're the Hand of the King. I owe you the courtesy of listening to your concerns and giving you my honesty."

This wasn't what Davos was expecting, nor what he wanted. He rushed to interrupt her. "Mistress –,"

"Speaking is difficult for me," she continued as if he hadn't said a word at all. "I'm not used to talking so freely. With anyone. Apart from the queen. The war and everything else with it made the ease of things disappear."

That was the problem, Davos thought.

"I figured as much," he replied. "The war wasn't easy, you didn't know who to trust. I don't take it personally, honestly I don't. There are some things in a person's life they keep to themselves. I don't have any ill intentions toward you and your position, Mistress Medda. I'm not one to pry, either. I just know it's hard to walk around with a load of trouble on your mind and not get lost in it. For the longest time, I didn't have anyone, just a boat and the open water, so I told the water whatever came to mind."

She looked at him, her beautiful brown eyes inscrutable. "Laugh if you will," Ser Davos continued, "but the water didn't seem to mind."

The stewardess smiled then, her eyes had melted back into their usual astute state. "Silver thread." Her words came out in a gentle lilt.

"Pardon?"

"Her grace doesn't have silver thread. She has pins, broaches, and a silver comb, but not silver thread."

"That's a thing?" Davos did not intend to sound thick, but silver thread was far beyond his smuggling experience. "Never saw such a thing myself."

"Her grace takes great pains in her needlework. She told me about when she was learning to sew, how her lady mother promised her silver and gold thread if she made her own dress without the help of the septa. The thread was for the embellishments. Embroidery work."

"The fancy bits."

Medda nodded. "Her grace finished the dress, so Lady Stark sent for the thread, and the queen kept it, waiting to use it for a special dress. She took it with her to King's Landing when she left with Lord Stark. The silver thread was the last present she'd ever received from her mother, and she never got a chance to use it. She's never sent for any since."

It was a deeply personal story, one probably shared in a quiet chamber during the darkest time of the war. The stewardess had kept the queen's confidence, and shared a secret that Ser Davos felt a deep honor for what he'd learned. Beyond that, he felt sympathy for the queen, who'd left childhood behind when her father had died, and for the stewardess who had kept her lady's secrets. Davos thanked whatever gods were left for finding himself in the service of a sane and altruistic ruler.

"Silver thread," the words sounded foreign to his tongue. "I'm not sure if Lord Manderly knows the ins and outs of something so small, but I reckon he'll find out where to acquire some. I'm sure there's all sorts of silver thread. Maybe even a highly reflective kind." When she continued to smile, Davos couldn't help but push his luck a bit more. "Should I be tellin' his grace to be on the lookout for silver embroidery on his shirts then? It could come in handy to distract the soldiers while he's training 'em."

She smiled broadly then, the ridiculous image of King John training men in the yard with shirts lined in useless embellishments. "I'm sure the queen will save it for a surcoat or tunic. We wouldn't want the men to be distracted by their king when it's their wives they should be admiring."

Davos couldn't help but guffaw. He tried to keep the laugh inside, as he wouldn't have been sure she was joking. But in the moment, her brown eyes had actually sparkled instead of cooling to their usual deep tone. They walked companionable silence for a time, eyes glued to the ground, but occasionally, as if in unison, they glanced up at each other and then back to the ground.

If anyone besides the two guards standing watch at the keep had seen them, they could have been mistaken for a newly courting couple. Had it been any other woman, Davos thought, gossiping tongues would have been wagging. He was trying his hardest for this to be different. Friendship was a slow courtship of another kind, Davos reckoned. Trust was earned now, not freely given as it had before the war. In time, he hoped he would earn her honest council. But for now, he was content to let her get use to sharing the same space, the same air, and walk side by side alone together and actually enjoy it.

A sudden rush of wings erupted from the castle behind them. The maddening torrent was so swift, it jolted the silence of the afternoon like a roar of a dragon. Unthinking of his actions, Davos reached for the woman beside him and pulled her down to their knees, sinking low into the snow. Heart pounding, Davos watched as a murder of several hundred crows sailed through the air above them, keeping a little above the tree line. Their unworldly caws sounded eerily of the echo of grown men's voices.

Davos kept his eyes on the crows longer than he'd anticipated, and when he finally looked across at the lady beside him, the confusion and alarm in her eyes was evident. Gone was the kind and lighthearted smile. It wasn't just fear in her eyes, but wide eyed alarm. Whatever had caused the crows to band together like a black winged army?

Davos thought quickly. It might have something to do with Brandon Stark. It was the type of unnatural grouping the onion knight had witness at first hand during the war with the Night King. But something was amiss.

After the crows had passed overhead, Ser Davos helped the stewardess to her feet and scanned the tree line for the first sign of a fight. When he didn't see one, Davos turned and squeezed Medda's upper arms in a gesture he hoped both grounded and comforted.

"The crows –," she began, anxious fear laced her words.

"I know. Something's wrong, what it is, I don't know. They're headed in the direction of the-," Davos' jaw went slack as he looked at a stumbling figure running down the path toward them. Whoever it was, the body was small, no more than a child.

"Mill." Medda's voice said in a hushed tone, her fingers clutched at the smuggler's dark cloak. "Something's wrong at the mill."

The boy, who had continued to run like a hound from hell was chasing him, yelled at the two adults in the road with a mixture of relief and pent up fear. He was sweaty, his face was burned red from the cold and exertion. His legs were wet from the knees down, and his spindly limbs were pumping as hard as they could without falling outright into the snow.

"Thomas!" Medda tore away from Ser Davos' grip. The sound of her yell was one reserved for a banshee. She ran toward the boy, heedless of any danger in front of her. "Thomas!"

Keeping his feet beneath him the best he could, Davos crossed the length of land running at her side. The boy nearly collapsed in Medda's arms, his breath came in hard pants as if he would never breathe enough air again. The stewardess checked the boy over quickly, hands searching for blood, injuries, and signs of struggle.

"Men with swords," The boy wheezed between frantic breaths. "At the mill. A bunch of them."

Medda tucked the boy into her side, her hands moving around his face in a motherly gesture. "Just now?" Ser Davos turned back toward the road leading to the mill, his eyes scanning the deepening dark for any sign of movement.

"Allyse said run to Winterfell. Get soldiers. Greta was inside. Allyse bolted the door." Thomas' breaths came in hot little puffs as he tried to slow his breathing.

"We need to go back," Davos kept his vision focused on the road behind them. "Can you run?" Medda jerked her head in affirmation, while the trembling boy at her side huffed out a stout "Yes."

Keeping the boy between them, Davos did his best to keep them on their feet and moving quickly forward. He wasn't much of a runner, but time was pressing on his neck. Even at his age, it was imperative for the three of them to get back to the castle and warn the others. The road, which had taken the better part of a half hour to stroll, was replaced by swiftness of feet on the snowy ground.

When they reached Winterfell's gates, it was with a flash of relief. But it was a hollow lump of cold comfort lodged in Ser Davos' throat. The afternoon, which had seemed so promising, was shattered by violence. Another reminder that security, no matter how well earned, was never a permanent state. Rushing past the first row of guards, Davos hurried to the center courtyard.

"Soldiers assemble! Raiders at the mill! To arms! To arms!" Davos pointed at a young guard posted at the upper gallery. "You! Inform the king! Men with swords at the mill!" The lanky lad scurried away, his feet racing down the upper corridor.

The clang of metal and the call of soldiers began filling the castle. "To arms!" another guard called. "Men with swords at the mill! To arms! Ready the horses boy!"

The unwavering grip on his cloaked arm went slack. In the rush to reach the safety of Winterfell's stone walls, he'd forgotten the tight hold he and the stewardess had kept on each other and the boy between them. It had felt natural to move and stay together during their flight back to the keep. Time seemed to slow before Davos' mind, the seconds stretching longer. He reached for the stewardess' hand, which seemed so diminutive to his own, as she was standing at his side.

She stopped, the barest of moments. Hands touched, melded. Then a grasp. Her chocolate eyes met his. The pressure of her grip joined with the acknowledgement in her eyes spoke louder than the din filling the yard. His old heart, which had seen a lifetime of hardship and trouble, felt a leap it hadn't known in many years. Recognition of something he wouldn't have believed existed yesterday.

 _A spark._

Bare hands slid bound together amid the chaos growing around them, but the look remained. Brown eyes filled to the brim with thanks had melted into the same realization. Ser Davos felt the thud of his heart and a stirring in his chest.

 _She recognized it too._

The angry yell of voices snapped the Hand of the King back to the present. It seemed to do the same for the stewardess, as Medda released the hold on his hand and gathered it around the heaving boy next to her.

"I must wait for the king." His tone was harsher than it should be, but given he was catching his breath, he was sure it could be forgiven.

"I'll tell the queen." The stewardess replied, her own breath slowing. Davos nodded in agreement. He watched her take the first deep breath in several minutes, while she maneuvered their young charge toward the kitchen door. "Let's get you inside."

Davos stood frozen on the spot, his stance unwavering apart from the heaving movements in his chest. But Medda's eyes didn't leave his until she'd slipped innocuously through the heavy wooden doors, her slender form obscured by the dark building beyond.

XxX

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**The Best is Yet to Be**

 **By littlelights**

 **Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.**

XxX

Chapter 6

Ironborn at the mill.

It should have been too unbelievable to be real, but Jon had seen far stranger things in his short life. Although over a year of peace had passed since Westeros had defeated the Night King, this quiet time of rebuilding had led to moments of unease settling in the back of his mind. As much as he desperately wanted the word to right itself into a semblance of peaceful order, he couldn't shake the feeling something bad was bound to happen. His wife, who had a curious way of sensing exactly what worried him, had kissed him sweetly and told him the two of them would face whatever problems arose in their own time.

The treaty his aunt, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, had signed with the Ironborn before the end of the war, had explicitly forbade roving, raping, and reeving. The old ways and the corruption of the old world were over. The present was a time to bring about new changes and improve the world they'd been born into.

Then why would Ironborn be at the mill?

Jon had powered through the front doors of the keep, clad in his efficiency armor and his great sword. Where other kings would have been content to allow regular soldiers to see to a disturbance in the area, he'd chosen to take a direct approach.

The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

The ride to the mill was short, and the years of running headlong into danger was tempered with sword work honed from years of fierce conflict. Backed by a personal guard of ten men plus Sandor Clegane, the Ironborn raiders who hadn't been nearly pecked to death by the congregation of crows had been running away toward the safety of the nearby river. When three of the men had been dispatched, Jon had ordered the remaining two men to be taken back to Winterfell to be tried and executed for their crimes. There was no need for interrogation, as Bran was probably weaving his way through the thought and memory of his greensight to sort out the details.

What Jon hadn't been prepared for was how single mindedly Ser Gregor fought his way through the semi-opened mill door, yelling the names of the miller and her adopted daughter. A swift inspection of the single open room appeared at first to be empty, until a hollow creaking sound caught every man's attention. Through a seemingly innocuous space in the floor where the wall joint met a stooped part of the wall, a short wooden plank popped out of place, followed by two more in quick succession. By the fourth plank, the dusty hair and elfin face of little girl broke through the hole. Tear tracks were evident on her skin, and while she never uttered a word, the look of relief in her eyes was apparent to all when Clegane rushed to the hiding place to pull the child and a pale skinned woman from their refuge.

A hidey hole. Winterfell's miller didn't feel safe enough not to have one.

What had been surprising to King Jon had been way both woman and child had fallen readily in to the arms of Ser Gregor, the little girl evidently familiar and trusting enough to wrap her tiny arms around his neck and plant herself in the center of the scarred knight's chest. The woman, content to wrap an arm around both child and knight, heaved several long breaths as Ser Gregor whispered something gruffly in her ear.

What words were exchanged, Jon may never find out, but whatever the scraggly haired man had said seemed to lend assurance in a way a small troop of Winterfell soldiers could not. Without looking at any of the other men, Clegane hoisted both charges on his own horse, and rode them back to the safety of Winterfell's walls. Jon thought better of stopping the man from leaving with the miller and child. The scarred knight had protected Sansa during a dark and dangerous time when he himself had been away leading men into battle at the Wall. Clegane had always been an enigma, and his behavior, while not out of character for a knight, was definitely something Jon would have never expected.

While waiting for Bran to complete his journey through a veil of time which only his younger brother could see, Jon looked up from his desk map of Westeros, and through the light of the wooden door leading to his bedchamber. Sansa was asleep, he could just make out her flaming red hair through the glow of a single candle at her bedside. While his wife slept fitfully, the new babe in her womb slumbering with her, his mind was troubled with the presence of invaders in his lands. As much as the king wished for the wise council of his queen, Sansa was in need of rest. The birth of their babe crept ever closer, and just as Jon had fervently hoped he would be at his wife's side during her labor, he was conscious of the possibility that yet another battle or yet another war would disturb the peace he'd worked so hard to create.

A quiet knock on the door revealed Ser Davos, who looked so tired an in need of his own bed.

"Yer grace," The Onion Knight began, "The bodies of the Ironborn have been searched. There was nothing on them, save the weapons they carried. A riding party will scout the river for a boat in the morning. We have the prerogative to ship their remains back to the Iron Islands or bury them at sea to be with their drowned god."

"We'll wait from word from Yara Greyjoy. Should she claim them, she may want to make an example of two men yet living." Jon swept another wave of fatigue from his forehead. "It's possible she didn't know they were acting against her orders."

"I don't suppose your aunt the queen would have information which could help us? Her master of whispers is the best."

Ser Davos was genuine in his respect for the Dragon Queen and her robed advisor Lord Varys. While Jon never felt the need for a Master of Whispers, the threat to Daenerys's portion the kingdom was an ever-perpetuating problem. With the Free Cities under her control, the riches of the wise masters were the queens to use as she pleased. Which made the prospect of sacking any of the cities as well as the larger part of Westeros an enticing prospect.

"I sent a raven off to Daenerys a few hours ago." Jon replied tiredly. "It's possible she may fly here if we need her, but with the winter being as wild as it is, I'd prefer she didn't risk the life of her dragons over five rogue Ironborn."

When Ser Davos said nothing, the king spoke aloud.

"It doesn't make sense," Jon mused quietly. "What Ironborn are left in Westeros returned to the Iron Islands to ride out the winter. What few ships have been seen have been ordered to return to Pike. The Ironborn are a cagey bunch, to be sure, but they won't disobey their queen. Not the ones we know of, anyway."

His older advisor took a moment to think before responding. "The Ironborn are mariners at heart, yer grace. Vicious fighters and pirates, yes, but they're also explorers and black marketeers in their own way as well. It's possible the Ironborn who breached our lands weren't in Westeros when the Night King was on the march."

"How so?"

"Well, it takes a man two years to pass beyond the Summer Sea and Sothoryos, all the way to the Jade Sea. The better part of three, if he's not in a hurry. And there are a lot of points of interest between here and there. The waters are so infested with traders and pirates alike, the Ironborn would blend right in. And that's just the getting there. After you figure the pillaging, looting, and so forth, an Ironborn man could be away from Westeros for the better part of seven years. Its entirely possible anyone away from that long wouldn't even know about what the rest of his people endured while he was away."

Jon was thoughtful for a long moment. "Suppose some of the Ironborn raiders were away from Westeros. What would they need to return home?"

"A ship, and healthy men to sail 'her," Ser Davos replied. "Safe harbors to take on supplies, and a hell of a lotta luck."

"So, if there were five of them in a dingy?"

"Wouldn't have made it out of most harbors."

Jon nodded, that stinging sensation of unease which had been difficult to pin down now seemed to manifest into a solid idea. A ship, maybe several ships, long away from Westeros. Returning to the shores with their stolen bounty. Rich enough to have a good stash of weapons, supplies, and slaves. Willfully ignorant or oblivious to the changes in their native land.

The world had changed, but they had not. And that's what made them dangerous.

"What if this was just a scoutin' party?" The Onion Knight suggested. "I'm by no means an export in Ironborn practices or methods, but it would be safer for the crew if a small group of men were let loose in the countryside for a quick look."

"Spotting out caches of food and communities ripe for sacking," the king finished. "Maybe. It would be hard for a large ship or even two large ships from hiding anywhere in the north."

"There's one place no one else would go, yer' grace." Ser Davos supplied.

"Where?"

"In the harbors north of the wall."

It had taken the better part of the night before the residents of Winterfell had fallen into an uneasy slumber. By morning, Olenna Tyrell was holding court in her comfortable ante chamber, her writing tools were organized into neat and orderly rows of correspondence, ink, and extra quills. Her personal seal, which she'd brought with her all the way from Highgarden, stool proudly next to the gold rimmed candle holder to the side.

Her morning routine, which consisted of absolutions, a light breakfast followed by a walk around the glass gardens, usually led to a few uninterrupted hours of correspondence. Letters were needed for almost everything these days. With House Tyrell wiped out, it had been the prerogative of Queen Daenerys to appoint Lord Samwell Tarly to be Lord Protector of the Reach. While Olenna couldn't fault the young man for his overall efficiency and attention to detail, he still seemed a timid sort. While he should have been disqualified from the appointment due to his vows to the Night's Watch, the few men left guarding the Wall had instead reworked the rules of their ancient order, allowing for ten years of service to the Watch to wash away any crimes committed across the kingdom. Not that the first born and rather plump eldest son of House Tarly had committed any crime other than being a disappointment to his father.

"Sam's more of a scholar than a soldier," the King in the North had said after news of Samwell's appointment had arrived. "He studied at the Citadel for a time, and he's one of the smartest people I know."

"An insufferable know-it-all, then." Olenna had grumbled.

"What he doesn't know, he looks for the answers," Jon assured. "Sam's a good man, my lady. He won't look to push you away, but he would look to you to advise him."

It was disconcerting to leave the Reach in the hand of Randyll Tarly's first-born son. The former head of House Tarly had sometimes been a peculiar bloom in her well-groomed garden. Loyal, an excellent hunter, but a bit too exacting for Oleanna's taste. Still, House Tarly standing in the seat of power in Highgarden was a damn sight better than those power-hungry opportunists in House Rowan.

She'd hardly seen this Samwell Tarly when he was young, and his weight and temperament was so different from his sire that the boy's swift journey to the Wall had not necessarily been a surprise. Still, this young Tarly had found himself in the Dragon Queen's good graces, and so far, he had proved himself to be a capable administrator. His letters were some of the few Olenna actually looked forward to reading, if just to see the boy pull himself out of a tricky diplomatic problem she herself had gracefully handled decades ago.

The young had to learn from their mistakes.

This recent letter from Lord Samwell Tarly, bearing the seal of the striding huntsman with his bow drawn, carried not only a bevy of reports, but all the news and events occurring throughout the Reach. A grandson had been born to Lord Leygood. House Costayne was renovating and improving the harbor near Three Towers to accommodate an influx of ships heading to Oldtown. To promote a better alliance between the Reach and Dorne, the niece of Arys Oakheart had been sent wed one of the sons of House Allyrion of Godsgrace. Little Sam was becoming quite capable of writing his lessons and reading some of the books from the family's library. It seemed the Tarly boy had been busy of late with concerns outside of his administration duties, as his wife, Gilly, was expecting their second child.

Time would tell if the fertility of the Reach would rub off on the likes of House Tarly. The gods knew the cultivation of family needed the gentle hand and love of a patient gardener. From what she could make out, maybe this Tarly patriarch would break the mold.

Two forgettable letters had arrived from few quibbling houses near Blackhaven seeking to circumvent their new Lord Protector. The others were from her Redwyne cousins, with another three from her grandnieces scattered across the Reach. Being the honored guest of House Stark had made the younger set salivate over what moveable goods were left in her home. They all would wait until the snows melted and the slumbering dragon under Winterfell rose again before she'd ever allow her extended kin to walk willy-nilly into her estates and take what they wished.

There was always a chance one of these Stark pups would take up the golden rose sigil a few years from now. Maybe not the boys, but a little girl - now that would be just what the Reach needed. A fierce Stark girl with no fear in hear heart and a capable mind. Lovely enough to tempt a second son of a powerful house in the Reach, and smart enough to know how to out maneuver his entire family. Mentoring that sort of lady would suit the Queen of Thorns exceptionally well.

But today, there were other concerns pressing down upon the inhabitants of Winterfell.

The respectful knock on the chamber door heralded the arrival of the ever efficient Stewardess of Winterfell, whom either by default or devotion was charged with escorting her to meet with the King of the North. Medda Forrester was everything Olenna wished more women would be – bright, direct, and not given to fits of giggles or other garish behavior inappropriate over the age of eighteen.

"My Lady," Medda opened the door as she spoke, her quick eyes noting the writing instruments at hand. "When you're finished, the king and queen have requested your council."

"Your timing, as usual Medda, is impeccable." Olenna rose from her seat with all the grace her aging bones could muster. "All these can be sent south with the next rider, provided the poor horse can make it through."

The stewardess nodded, keeping a mental tally of the letters on the desk. I'll send the rider up in an hour to fetch them."

Olenna nodded her approval. "Good, now let's go see ruckus these Ironborn raiders have stirred up. It's been some time since we've had this brand of excitement." While she was loathe to walk with a cane now that the damnable winter had gotten into her bones, the stewardess' arm was a capable support for walking the first few steps on her journey to the king's war room.

"I heard you were out and about with the Hand of the King when this whole affair started." Olenna began without a hint accusation. Age might have taken away most of her gentler facets, but she was extra careful when it came to speaking to the stewardess about personal matters. "I heard it from one of my maids who saw the two of you and that sweaty little boy run through the front gates hell bent for shelter."

"My lady," the dark haired woman began.

Olenna cut her off. "I wouldn't pry if he wasn't one of the most capable people I met during the war against the long night. Steadfast at the king's side and intent on returning as many men home alive as possible."

"We were just walking."

"I'm not your mother, dear. You don't need to make excuses to take an unescorted walk with a handsome gentleman."

The comment seemed to joust her companion a bit. "You think I'd go for a walk with someone just because he's handsome?"

"Of course not." Olenna brushed the question aside. "You're far too sensible for that, and overly invested in your position here to waste your time on such frivolous pursuits."

"Thank you, my lady."

"I'm merely noting how a late afternoon stroll with a handsome and good-hearted man ended with the two of you raising the alarm which saved at least two lives, not to mention the safety and security of this ancient yet somehow frost repellent pile of stone."

When the stewardess couldn't bring herself to answer, the older lady relinquished her penchant to question and squeezed the younger woman's arm affectionately. "My apologies, my dear. It amuses me to take an interest in other people's personal business. You took the whole affair in stride, from what I heard. A few short moments after you exited the frying pan you and Ser Davos patiently organized the extinguishing of the fire. There was the handsome Hand of the King, looking stoic and strong while you swept the little foundling boy into the stout walls of the keep to inform the queen and ready the healers for when the men returned. My maid was quite intent on telling me every detail, even if she didn't have a very good view of the courtyard in question."

"It was nothing like that at all." Medda said flatly.

"My maid is often given to reporting items of interest with a heavy-handed dose of her own romanticism. She keeps her comments about King Jon to herself, which is good, because it shows she has a half a brain. I don't tolerate that sort of swooning foolery. But when it comes to the older and still handsome Hand of the King, well, my maid says what she thinks. And she's not the only one."

"I didn't think many women would take an interest in him in that way, my lady." The words were polite, but from the intonation Olenna could tell that last comment had piqued the stewardess' interest.

"Most women are attracted to power, my dear. And with the king happily married, most eyes fall to the next person in line. And I don't mean the queen. As a woman she is formidable, where those intent on pulling the strings find a man to be biddable. Thankfully, the Hand is a reasonable man who serves his king and keeps his trousers buttoned. But he's a widower with no children and no heirs to his house. Only time will tell if he falls into the kind of vanity which drives men to a quick death."

"What would that be, my lady?"

"Expiring in the conjugal embrace of an ambitious and nubile young bride. He needs an heir, and she wants a piece of the power he wields. He picks a pretty young little thing who's clever enough to make him feel twenty years younger, and sooner or later, his body gives out. In my experience, men his age tend to exert themselves when trying to get a woman with child. It's the strain of it, you know, which does them in. And what stays behind is the lovely little wife. She gets his lands, his titles, and if she's truly a sharp little thing, she'll be breeding an heir. Whether it's her husband's or someone else's, that would be anyone's guess."

"That's rather mercenary, my lady." The younger woman replied in a neutral tone. "From what I know of Ser Davos, he's not the type of man to attach himself to a woman like that."

"You may be right," Olenna conceded carefully. "But the feminine mystique has its own way to catching up with a man and bending him into knots. If I didn't relish my own independence overmuch, this Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King, wouldn't stand a chance. But at my age, a warm fire, a glass of wine, and the company of the younger set is all you need to keep life feeling very full."

They turned the corner to the king's council chambers, where the mix of voices and accents were muffled by the thick wooden door. "Ah! Here we are. I trust I'll see you when this damnable discussion is over?"

Medda nodded with a somber expression. "I look forward to hearing what isn't fit for the gossips of the keep."

"Well said." Olenna smirked and let herself in through the door.

It was in the brief interlude when she relinquished Medda's arm at the door to traverse the short walk to her usual council chair by the large table that Olenna had time to study the postures of the party assembled in the room. King Jon stood next to his wife, the upper half of his body stooped over studying a map of the North surrounded by his closest kin and confidants – Arya Stark, Gendry Baratheon, and Ser Davos Seaworth. Sansa was seated next to him with a pile of raven scrolls laid out in her delicate hands as the swell of her belly made standing difficult. Brandon Stark and his rolling chair were situated nearby, his hand clasped in those of his wife.

To anyone else, the slow closing of the door was an action to be ignored, but it was Olenna's keen eyes which spotted the look exchanged between the Hand of the King and the woman in the doorway. It was one she had seen throughout her life between a man and a woman as they stood on the breathless edge before the tumble into something which could only be defined as 'something more.' Not potent enough to attract the attention of everyone in the room, but a brief flair of feeling which can only exist when the alchemy between two people was strong.

Love was a game best suited for the young Lady Tyrell thought as she seated herself gracefully in a fur lined chair. Thankfully, she didn't have to worry about burying another husband. War was a game better suited for the older and more experienced. And with the players on her team ready, it was time to get down to the business at hand.

XxX

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